Instinct
by Cody'sxFavoritexGirl
Summary: Deep in the basements of all of the major military bases in America sit people locked in cages. Ordinary people who have been plucked at random off of the streets and changed into werewolves, doomed to do the military's bidding. Resistance is futile and escape is impossible...or is it? AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I own nothing but the storyline.**

**Chapter 1**

Freedom. This was a word that meant nothing to me. It was just an empty promise, the kind that gets your hopes up and then brings them plummeting down, smashing into jagged pieces on the floor.

I don't believe in freedom.

My thumb rubbed one of the metal bars that kept me enclosed in this tiny room, rust flaking off. It was dark down here, and very, very cold. The stone floor felt like ice beneath my bare feet, and goosebumps covered my pale skin. The air smelled like death and fear and desperation, and every so often a plea for help would split the silence. Every time someone would speak, others would answer, their voices like the frantic staccato gunfire of a machine gun. I never cried out, never answered back. There was no point in letting them know that I was still breathing, for in here death is a sanctuary.

The heavy metal door directly across from my cell opened, spilling a bright rectangle of light over the uneven floor. I stepped further back into the cell, welcoming the shadows' cool embrace. The darkness was my only friend here.

Boots thumped on the floor as two men dressed in military fatigues entered the room, carrying flashlights in their trembling hands. Despite the crushing darkness, I could see their faces perfectly. They were young, and lacking the haunted eyes that signaled that they had seen things no one should. I inhaled deeply. The sweet scent of their fear bathed my tongue, and something primal rose up within me before I pushed it back down. Luckily, the beast inside of me was getting easier to control a little every day.

Others had not yet learned to control it, however. Snarls emitted from some of the cages, and the two flashlight beams bounced from one cell to another as the young soldiers spun in a circular motion, sticking close to each other. I felt their rising panic, and I shook my head. The fools were just feeding the pandemonium by allowing their fear to show.

Cell bars rattled, yanked on by hungry hands. Bare feet stomped the ground, and the snarls and roars grew louder and louder. I just stood there, drinking it all in. There was an almost contagious feel to all of it, and the soldiers' fear was growing. Hands were reaching out between the bars, fingers clawing at the soldiers' clothing, the chorus of snarls and howls getting louder and louder and-

Suddenly pained yells and yelps broke out as electricity began to run through the bars, the snap and crackle of it reaching my trained ears. The smell of burned flesh filled the air, and I wrinkled my nose, disgusted. Sometimes I hated my heightened sense of smell.

And then just as soon as the chaos had begun, it ended. There were soft groans and whimpers of pain as those that had been electrified by the bars retreated into the depths of their cells, nursing their wounds.

The two soldiers slowly walked over to an empty cell on my right as soon as the crackling noises had stopped, their faces deathly pale. I could tell that they were struggling to contain their fear as they began to get the cell ready for someone. One of them met my eyes, and he looked away quickly, his hands shaking as he lay an old moth-eaten wool blanket on the rickety cot up against the wall.

When they were finished they retreated to that rectangle of light, and the door closed with a clang after they had passed through, condemning us to darkness once again.

The clanging sound of the door opening again woke me from the uneasy sleep that I had been in, and I rolled off of the cot, my muscles stiff. I stretched, trying to loosen them up while staying hidden in the shadows. I squinted at that rectangle of light just as a figure appeared in the doorway. A growl rumbled in my throat before I could stop it, my body reacting to the presence of the man who I hated more than anyone.

His eyes were a flat, cold blue, and there was a spray of blond stubble across his chin and around his mouth, which was flattened into a thin line. He also wore military fatigues, and there was a handgun in the holster at his hip. He smelled like gunpowder and steel, and my mind transported me back to that day when we first met. The day that ruined my life.

"Lieutenant Helmsly," a soldier said, appearing behind him. "The subject has arrived."

"Has his cell been readied?" Lieutenant Helmsly asked in a voice that commanded authority and attention.

"Yes sir."

"Alright, bring him in."

The soldier disappeared, and a moment later two other soldiers arrived, dragging a limp form between them. As they got closer, I could see that it was a guy in his early 30's, like me. He was shirtless, and a wide variety of tattoos crawled across his upper chest and covered his arms. His right shoulder and part of his lower neck were soaked in crimson blood, and my fingers unconsciously drifted up to touch the sunken scar by my collarbone.

They tossed him unceremoniously into the cell next to mine, the one that the rookie soldiers had had gotten ready hours earlier. They slid the heavy barred door shut and locked it, and then the two soldiers left.

Lieutenant Helmsly lingered, his eyes flicking to my cell. Even though I knew that there was no way he could see me, I still felt a numb feeling spread throughout my body as my eyes met his, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over my head.

And then he turned and disappeared into that light, and the door closed once again.

I stood there for a moment, and then I turned to peer through the bars at the tattooed guy. He lay motionless on the floor, but as I watched he groaned quietly and began to sit up.

"Don't sit up too fast," I said, the sound of my own voice foreign. I hadn't spoken since the day that I was brought here. I'm not too sure what made me want to talk to this guy. Maybe I've gotten lonely. "It'll make your head spin, and then you'll throw up. And after that, those assholes will come in here and beat the shit out of you for throwing up."

He looked up, startled, and I could see his eyes struggling to focus on me in the dark. They were hazel, and full of some emotion that I couldn't identify. "It burns," he rasped, his entire body shaking.

"Yeah, it's going to for a little while," I told him matter-of-factly. "And then after that, you'll start to feel strange. Like something is shifting, moving under your skin. And then your vision will improve, and you'll be able to see in the dark. Your canines will sharpen and your hearing will get way better."

"What did they do to me?" he whispered, his voice shaky. "They took me into some room, and it was dark, and then there was pain in my shoulder and neck, and I blacked out. And now..." He trailed off, and I saw him lift a hand and gently brush it over the bloody bite marks on his neck and shoulder, shuddering with pain.

"They turned you," I said, sinking down into a crouching position and edging closer to the bars.

"Turned me into what?" the guy asked slowly, his muscles tensing as though he were bracing himself for my answer.

"Different people call it different things," I explained, trying to put it as gently as possible. "In France they call us _loup-garou._ In Rome, _lycanthrope. _But here in America, we're simply known as werewolves."

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "I'm a werewolf?"

"Not yet, but in twenty-four hours you will be."

"Oh." He was quiet for a long time, and I started to think that I had given him a heart attack and he had died without a peep. But then he spoke again. "What's your name?"

Now I was the one who was silent for a long time. I hadn't told anyone my name since I had arrived here. The military guys sure as hell hadn't been interested in it, and the other people in the cages down here were too lost in their own despair that they didn't care. I wasn't a trusting person back when I was normal, so what made me think that this guy and I could maybe be friends?

"My name is Mike," I said finally. I would say no more than that. Last names didn't really matter at this point.

The guy nodded, satisfied with this little tidbit of information. "They call me Punk," he said quietly.

"Well, Punk, I wish we could've met under different circumstances," I told him honestly.

A wry smile spread across his face. "Me too," he said.

A moment of silence passed between us, and then he said in a tired voice, "So when do they let us out of here?"

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "You don't seem to understand. We'll never get out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I don't know how much time had passed when I heard the first hungry growl from Punk's cell. I stopped my relentless pacing of my tiny room and walked over to peer through the bars. A pair of startling yellow eyes met mine, and the huge wolf attempted to rise up onto it's hind legs. The ceiling was too low though, and it fell forward onto all fours again, backing away from me with a snarl.

I knelt down by the row of bars that divided us and stuck my hand through, holding it out to the wolf. "Punk," I murmured, keeping my blue eyes locked on his. "Don't be afraid. I'm one of you."

Punk's lip curled, flashing his razor-sharp fangs, but the fur was beginning to lie flat along his spine. Slowly he crept forward, and I kept perfectly still as he approached. His nostrils flared as he inhaled my scent and, recognizing it as that of a fellow werewolf, he relaxed.

"It feels strange, doesn't it?" I whispered, meeting that bright yellow gaze steadily. "To feel yourself deep down inside, your soul trapped in a body that isn't yours. In a way, they think they're giving us power, a gift of sorts. But what they're really doing is locking us up in another cell. All of us are condemned to spend the rest of our lives battling ourselves.

Punk's body shuddered as soon as I finished speaking, and I saw his muscles spasm under his coarse gray fur. There were the sounds of bones cracking and re-aligning at the same time that a high-pitched whimper ripped itself from his throat. I turned away, unable to witness the same thing that I had to endure. You got used to the turning after awhile, but you never got used to the pain.

When it got quiet, I looked back into Punk's cell. He was huddled on the hard stone floor, shivering and pale, a strange look in his eyes. I didn't say anything; he needed time to comprehend what had just happened to him.

About half an hour had gone by when he finally said, "I don't want this life."

I laughed a little, rubbing my thumb over one of the bars again. "None of us do. We weren't given a choice."

Punk gingerly touched the wound on his shoulder, a brief flash of pain crossing his face. The bite had already started to heal, but even the healing process hurts. It feels like someone's stitching up your skin with very sharp needles, needles that sink into your flesh and burn hotter than any fire.

"They snatched me out of the gym," Punk said slowly, as though he wasn't too sure he should be telling me this. "I went to go to the bathroom and the emergency exit flew open. Some big guy grabbed me and at the same time I felt a jab in my side, like a needle. I couldn't move my arms or legs, and I couldn't scream. And then I was here." He waved his arm at our surroundings, his hazel eyes full of sadness.

I knew that I should have said something, told him that it was all going to be okay, but I couldn't. Memories were hitting me so hard that I had to put a hand against the wall to steady myself. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breathing speeding up as a miniature movie played in my brain so fast that I only caught pieces of it: bright sunlight pounding down onto the sidewalk; people passing by; the screech of tires and a door being slid open; a sharp prick in my side; numbness spreading throughout my body and hands grabbing at me; the dark interior of a van; wanting to scream as the door shut out the light...

I fell to my hands and knees, my body heaving. Bile rose in my throat, and I crawled over to the grimy toilet in the corner and retched, coughing up what little food they'd given me earlier. My skin was clammy and I was covered in a light sheen of sweat, but I wasn't sick.

"Mike?" Punk's voice was small, almost scared. "Are you alright?"

I sat back from the toilet and wiped my mouth with a shaking hand. I thought about that condition that soldiers sometimes get after they come back from serving in a war. What was it called again? Post traumatic something. "Yeah," I called back weakly. "I'm fine."

I could tell from the dubious look on his face that he didn't believe me in the slightest, but he didn't push the matter and I was grateful for that.

"That's what they do," I said, leaning back against the wall and looking at Punk. "They just take people. They make them into animals. They can't take care of their own shit, so they get us to do it for them."

"What kind of shit?" Punk asked, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

"You know, interrogations, hunting down fugitives. Stuff like that."

"They use you—us—for torture?" Punk asked, horrified.

"That's one of the things they use us for, yes," I replied, nodding.

"Jesus..." Punk whispered. He put his head in his hands, clearly overwhelmed.

"You get used to it after awhile," I murmured, leaning my head back against the cold cement wall. "Pretty soon they stop looking like humans. They just look like something that needs to be torn apart."

"That's disgusting," Punk said, his voice suddenly very loud. "How can you sit there and justify something like that?"

"You think I have a choice?" I snarled viciously. "You think I do it for _fun?_ Get your head out of your ass."

"Why don't you fight them?" Punk demanded.

I sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. "I gave up on fighting a long time ago."


End file.
